


The Gods Themselves

by manic_intent



Category: Black Panther (2018), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, M/M, No Infinity War, That no-IW AU after the events of Thor: Ragnarok, where T'Challa agrees to offer the Asgardians Wakandan airspace as sanctuary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 09:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17620166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: At dawn New Asgard grew visible from the eastern flank of Birnin Zana, floating motionless above the snow-capped peaks of the Pillars. Somehow the Asgardians had built outwards from their massive starship. The platforms that fed outwards in tiers were toothed with graceful silver spires that nearly completely blocked out the dense mass of the starship at their core. New Asgard now looked like a many-tipped crown, hung above the seat of the Gods.“This is probably your worst idea so far,” Shuri said. They were having breakfast on the eastern balcony. Shuri was fighting yawns, hair whorled over her head, sleepy in a loose blue patterned blouse and wrap.





	The Gods Themselves

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first part of this fic years ago… and was inspired to finish it after starting to read NK Jemisin’s Hundred Thousand Kingdoms. That book. Is amazing.
> 
> In the comics, New Asgard resettles by floating above Oklahoma, but in today’s political climate I doubt they’d find refuge in the USA. The film does kinda hint that they might resettle in Norway, assuming that they make it out of IW, but in the current climate I doubt that would work either. In my other fics I had Tony just buy them an island somewhere, but for this fic I’m going to go with the floating city thing from the comics.

At dawn New Asgard grew visible from the eastern flank of Birnin Zana, floating motionless above the snow-capped peaks of the Pillars. Somehow the Asgardians had built outwards from their massive starship. The platforms that fed outwards in tiers were toothed with graceful silver spires that nearly completely blocked out the dense mass of the starship at their core. New Asgard now looked like a many-tipped crown, hung above the seat of the Gods. 

“This is probably your worst idea so far,” Shuri said. They were having breakfast on the eastern balcony. Shuri was fighting yawns, hair whorled over her head, sleepy in a loose blue patterned blouse and wrap. 

“What is?” T’Challa asked. Their father had made it a point to have breakfast with them every morning, often the only ‘family time’ of the day any of them could afford. T’Challa sipped at a strong cup of chai, dipping fried pockets of akara into corn custard. 

Ramonda said nothing, though her eyes flicked towards New Asgard and back as she speared a banana puff-puff with a fork. Shuri frowned at their mother, then at T’Challa. “ _That_. Inviting alien colonisers to park over our mountains?” 

“We’re not using that area, our environmentalists agree that New Asgard’s current position doesn’t have any effect on the local ecology, and no other country on Earth has agreed to let them into their air space,” T’Challa said. He’d said the same to his Council, to his people. And to his family, again and again. It didn’t matter. The weight of his crown had taught T’Challa the value of patience. 

“They _could_ sit over international waters,” Shuri pointed out. 

“They could,” T’Challa conceded. Thor had originally decided to do just that, apparently. Sit just off the American coast, in international waters. Then the American President had loudly objected. And the UN had to be involved again. In the end, to break the stalemate, T’Challa had offered limited sanctuary. 

“You can only afford to buck the Tribal Council so many times,” Ramonda said. She stirred honey into her chai, eyes fixed on the spoon. “Elder Qaqamba had a word with me after the vote.” 

“It’s _limited_ sanctuary. We aren’t offering them anything other than air space,” T’Challa said. He’d had his own run-ins with the elderly leader of the Merchant Tribe. 

“For now,” Shuri muttered. When T’Challa sighed, she said, “What? You heard Thor’s UN speech. Apparently, his sister and father used to conquer other worlds. Our world used to be part of their empire. Not that any of us noticed, admittedly, but. I don’t even want to start on Loki.” 

Loki was the reason most countries put forward to refuse sanctuary. T’Challa couldn’t blame them. “I’m meant to visit New Asgard after breakfast. You can come along if you like. Instead of endlessly speculating over how they’re building their towers so quickly.”

“This is hurting your own efforts to integrate with the world,” Ramonda said. She set down her cup, her brow caught in a faint frown. 

“Nakia said so too. But we don’t have to negotiate our role in the world exclusively with Western governments. Nakia and I are content to start with our continent. We should begin with the problems on our doorstep.” Even doing just that would likely consume the rest of his lifetime. It was a daunting prospect, one that T’Challa had once sought to ignore. 

Shuri snickered. “So when are you both getting married?”

“ _Shuri_ ,” Ramonda said, reproachful. 

“What? Look at him. Not so long ago he was all ‘Yes, Father was right, Wakanda should sit behind its own borders, look to our way of life’.” Shuri mimicked T’Challa’s tone. “Now he’s all ‘We have a responsibility to use our wealth to better the world’. Wonder what changed?”

“It’s not like that,” T’Challa said, though he wished it had been. Some days. On most days, he knew that it was better that it was not. Nakia had said as much when they had parted. If they married, Wakanda’s outreach efforts would be seen as a new King indulging the interests of his young new Queen. Apart, their relief efforts wouldn’t be treated as temporary measures.

Shuri accompanied T’Challa to New Asgard, though she made snide comments all the way through the short trip. She did fall silent as the airship crested within close view of the floating city. The towers that New Asgard had built still had a faintly clapped-together look, created out of recycled scrap metal bought from Lagos. Thor had been waiting for them. He walked up as the airship landed, grinning, big and golden like the savannah lions. Once there were people on Earth who worshipped Thor as a God. It was easy to see why, even with Thor one-eyed and shorn. 

“King T’Challa. Princess Shuri. Welcome to New Asgard.” 

“Why do you have an Australian accent?” Shuri asked as the Dora Milaje ranged out behind them. 

“Sister…” T’Challa muttered. 

“He does!” 

“Allspeak tends to adjust oddly to a world with many dialects,” Thor said, unperturbed. “You think I’m speaking English with an ‘Australian’ accent. I’m actually speaking High Asgardian.” 

“Heimdall speaks with a British accent. Or seems to,” Shuri said, curious now. Heimdall had been serving as a go-between for Asgard and Wakanda, if only because the Elder Council, while still ambivalent at best to the presence of New Asgard, remained impressed by his unbreakable dignity. 

Thor started to frown. “Is this a problem? If so, I’ll assign someone to address it.” 

“Not at all,” T’Challa said, with a warning glance at Shuri.

“More importantly,” Shuri said, “why does it sound like you’re speaking English to us? Xhosa is the national language of Wakanda.” 

“Because you expect me to speak English,” Thor said. He looked puzzled, as though that was obvious. 

Faced with a technological impossibility, Shuri’s face tightened with a familiar look of hunger. “That makes no sense. Is your tech somehow reading my mind?” 

“You’re welcome to speak to our ley engineers about it, though I confess we haven’t updated the Allspeak code for a century,” Thor said, with a blink. “Why does it matter, if we understand each other?”

“Your possibly mind-reading language-altering dialect-unconscious technology was written a century ago and the details of how it works doesn’t matter?” Shuri gawked. 

“It is a small thing to us. I confess I’m beginning to think I don’t understand humans after all,” Thor said, gesturing for them to follow as he ambled away from the landing pad. “Two years I spent on Earth with Tony Stark and the others and it feels like I haven’t learned anything about your species.” 

“Learned about what?” Shuri asked, ignoring T’Challa and speeding up to keep pace beside Thor. 

“Well,” Thor said, with a wry smile, “I didn’t expect most human countries to completely reject giving us sanctuary. I _did_ tell them, if it wasn’t for Asgardian geneseed experiments, humanity wouldn’t even have evolved in the first place. Why do people think Asgardians look just like humans? That’s a serious evolutionary coincidence if it happened just by itself.” 

“Firstly,” Shuri said, ticking off points on her fingers, “you just challenged many people on their idea of God and intelligent design, which made a lot of people angry and defensive. Secondly, eh, the first people on this world evolved in Africa, and you don’t see the world doing African people any favours. It’s usually the opposite. You’re lucky you came to the negotiating table with blonde hair, pale skin, and a dick.”

“Shuri!” T’Challa yelped. 

Thor laughed. It was a belly sound, deep and loud. “That’s the other thing we don’t understand. I don’t know why people here are still treated differently based on visual differences. It’s a flaw in the Asgardian geneseed, perhaps. It’s not just Earth. It’s the same for some other Asgardian geneseed races, such as the Kree. Some civilisations correct it out of their cultures, like Xandar, but it’s rare.” 

“You still have racism in Asgard?” T’Challa asked. 

“When your species can live as long as a star, you tend to strip petty and illogical things from your society.” Thor exhaled. “But it took us a long time, and we’re not immune to social cankers like prejudice. I’m probably not the best person to ask about this matter.”

“Why not?” Shuri paused from studying some sort of stasis field to look back at Thor. 

Thor smiled warmly at her. “I’m well aware that I’m the most privileged person in Asgard. Feel free to talk to other Asgardians, if you’re curious about our culture. Asgard is not perfect, and never has been.” 

“I see that. Given Asgard’s penchant toward colonialisation and wars,” Shuri said, with a sharp grin. “As above, so below, huh? Can we blame that on the geneseed too?”

Thor regarded them both soberly. “Perhaps. We certainly tend to commit similar mistakes. Like Wakanda, Asgard once tried to withdraw from the rest of the universe. We shut down our stardrive factories. Limited interstellar travel. Grew insular. So we were unprepared, isolated, and nearly destroyed when problems struck close to home. Still,” he said brightly, as T’Challa frowned, “what doesn’t kill you, eh? What would you like to see?” 

“You haven’t scheduled anything in?” T’Challa’s own life was minutely scheduled, for the most part. Even before he had become King. 

“Schedules are for people with a limited life span,” Thor said, then hesitated. “No offense.” 

“None taken. It is, after all, true,” T’Challa said wryly. He looked to Shuri. “Where would you like to go?”

“Engineering,” Shuri said immediately. “The Stardrive Core, isn’t that what you call it? Whatever’s holding up this ship without consuming resources.” 

“I thought we forwarded all those plans to your laboratory,” Thor said, though he started to walk obligingly towards the closest spire. 

“You did. And like most of the stuff you’ve sent us, it’s incomprehensible. I can read the math used, but everything else is like if someone wrote a thesis on quantum mechanics in a new language and wrung it through Google Translate,” Shuri said, pulling a face. “I want to talk to your scientists. Australian accent optional. I want to learn everything.” 

“What happened to this being my worst idea so far?” T’Challa said, amused. Shuri flipped a rude gesture at him and sniggered when he grimaced.

#

“It must be nice having normal siblings,” Thor said, when they left Shuri with the Core engineers and retired to Thor’s office. It was, perhaps unsurprisingly, also his chambers—past the chamber with the viewport was an adjoining chamber with a bed. Space was still a premium aboard New Asgard. Outside of the cabins and the room Thor used as some sort of audience chamber, there were few structural redundancies.

“Shuri? Normal?” T’Challa walked over to the viewport. It gave him a commanding view of Birnin Zana, gleaming under the sun in all its midday splendour. Shoals of airships dotted the sky above it, spinning in slow cycles. From this distance, the city T’Challa loved looked uncomfortably small and undefended. Even though he knew that wasn’t true. 

“Non-sociopathic,” Thor corrected. He leaned a hip against his desk, which flickered briefly into life with complex holograms until Thor made a dismissive gesture. 

“I suppose having a brilliant younger sibling who only threatens the space/time continuum every few weeks through a spirit of scientific inquiry is better than having brilliant siblings who do it out of a sense of mischief or spite,” T’Challa said, with an absolutely straight face. 

Thor grinned slyly at him. “I would not worry. Wakandan technology is more advanced than the rest of Earth’s, but it’s hardly close to creating a Bifrost disjunction.” Thor paused, frowning to himself. “Not quite the words I would have chosen to use.” 

“Could you switch off Allspeak?” At Thor’s inquiring glance, T’Challa said, “I’d like to hear your language. As it is.” 

Thor smiled. He said something to T’Challa in a language that sounded vaguely Germanic, albeit interspersed with musical inflections. “My thanks,” T’Challa said, wondering if Thor could now hear unfiltered isiXhosa in turn. “It is beautiful.” 

“So is yours,” Thor said in ‘English’, reactivating Allspeak. He tilted his head, as though listening to something. “It is beautiful,” he said in isiXhosa, stumbling over the words T’Challa had just spoken. Thor grinned playfully at T’Challa’s surprise and tried it again with even less success.

“It is beautiful,” T’Challa repeated. He grinned and helped correct Thor’s pronunciation until Thor managed an appropriate facsimile. T’Challa had more luck reproducing the phrase in High Asgardian. He did, after all, already speak three Germanic languages. 

“I’ll learn it in time,” Thor promised him. “Your language.”

“Why would you need to? You have Allspeak.” 

Thor shook his head. “It is an honour to learn a language.” He paused, thinking over the words he had just said. “It is a merit. No, that is not the word. It is…” He trailed off, with a frown. “Allspeak is not perfect,” Thor said, after a long pause. 

“How many languages do you speak?” T’Challa asked. 

“Thirteen. The Nine Standards. Galactic, Kree, Shi’Arnese. I took Flora Colossi as an elective—now that’s a fascinating language. Requires modified aural implants to speak and understand. My Niðavellisk is the most uneven. I’d been working on that.” Thor’s expression went briefly still, his hand twitching by his side where Mjölnir would have hung. He forced a smile. “I suppose there’s no need for that now. The dwarves are unlikely to be willing to forge me another Mjölnir. Even if I could contact them.” 

“The Nine Standards?”

“There’s one ‘official’ Standard tongue for each branch of the Asgardian Empire. Things do tend to change over a thousand years, admittedly. The Standard I studied for Midgard appears to be long dead. Pity. I rather liked it.” Thor folded his arms and looked out through the viewport. “I know. It’s lazy.” 

“Lazy?”

“Only learning thirteen languages. When I’m 1,500 years old. My mother used to scold me about it all the time.” Thor’s mouth curled into a tight smile. “My brother was already fluent in twice that number while he was only your sister’s age. So I understand. About having brilliant younger siblings.” 

“We have more in common than we would like. We wear crowns that had to be held by force,” T’Challa said softly, folding his arms behind his back. “Killed our own blood-kin to keep them.” 

Thor’s face twisted with pain. He fell silent, turning his face away. Just as T’Challa was thinking of apologising or changing the subject, Thor said, “Did you hate him? Your cousin.” 

T’Challa didn’t bother asking how Thor had heard of all that. Heimdall’s gift—if a gift was what he had—was a frightening one. “No. How could I? He was my blood.” 

Thor offered him a ghost of a smile. “And that makes hatred impossible?”

“It makes hatred complicated,” T’Challa said gently, “just as hatred should be. Especially within families like ours, in whose hands rest the lives of others. A quarrel for anyone else might just be a quarrel. A quarrel between royalty, well, of such things are civil wars made. We should know.”

“Yes,” Thor said. He looked tired. “I know.” 

“Are all Asgardians immortal? As you are?” T’Challa asked. 

“Asgardians are not technically immortal,” Thor corrected. “We are simply extremely long-lived. We do still age. Very slowly.” 

“Was the geneseed so corrupted?” 

“On Midgard? No. Simply. Unedited,” Thor said, with a faint, wry smile. “Midgard is a control planet. There are a few.” 

T’Challa shivered. He tried to imagine it. A civilisation so powerful, so vast, so advanced and arrogant, that it could use entire planets as casually as Shuri would use a petri dish. “Why did you come here?” 

Thor blinked at him. There was a brief stillness to his face before he smiled broadly. “Why not? I have friends here. I like Midgard. It has good mead.” 

“Presumably Asgard has diplomatic relations with other, more advanced worlds. Worlds that are conscious that they are part of the Asgardian Empire. You could have gone to such worlds as a king. You did not have to come to Earth like a beggar.” 

“A beggar,” Thor said. He shot T’Challa a slow, appraising look. Gone was the jovial playful humour, the friendly patience. Thor was still smiling, still impossibly handsome. Yet T’Challa could see it now, a flicker of something hidden, something more. He only saw it because he knew it had been there. Thor had come all the way to Earth for a specific reason. One that he had yet to divulge. “Sometimes kings have no choice but to beg. When the lives of their people are at stake.” 

“A king, perhaps. What about a God?” T’Challa asked. Thor laughed. Beyond the rich rumbling sound of his amusement, T’Challa imagined the sound of thunder.

#

Of all the Asgardians—other than Loki, who was apparently not Asgardian at all—Valkyrie was an anomaly. The other Asgardians were a polite and industrious people who kept aboard New Asgard. Valkyrie drank, she cursed, she wandered where she liked. She particularly appeared to like the Border Tribe, who were fascinated by her in turn.

T’Challa was still surprised to find Valkyrie perched on one of the Border Tribe’s trained Wakandan rhinos when he emerged from his Warbird. He glanced at W’Kabi for an explanation, but W’Kabi offered no comment, his eyes flicking over T’Challa’s shoulder to meet Okoye’s before looking back. 

“What brings you here?” W’Kabi asked. His tone was flat. Near insolence. 

“You speak to your King,” Okoye growled behind T’Challa. “Show some respect.” 

W’Kabi didn’t bother to reply. He stared at T’Challa instead, unblinking. Behind him, the other Border Tribesmen watched quietly. T’Challa tried to swallow his frustration. It had been months since N’Jadaka’s ill-fated attempt on the throne, and the Border Tribe had still not forgiven the Throne the deaths they had suffered in the brief civil war. Even if they understood it. They had backed the wrong king, and people had died on both sides. Death was still difficult to rationalise, even for the most warlike of the tribes. 

A loud burp broke the tense silence. T’Challa and W’Kabi looked instinctively to the side. Valkyrie was balanced precariously on her feet, standing on the back of the rhino. She drank from a bottle as she sauntered down its spine, teetering wildly with each step. She was dressed in silver and blue armour that was muddy at the edges, visibly unarmed. But for the angular white markings on her face and her armour she could have passed for Wakandan on a passing glance, with her dark skin and braided hair. 

“A social visit,” T’Challa said. He’d had prepared for this trip, intended to insist on a meeting with the Elder of the Border Tribe, to persuade her to address her people’s ongoing hostility against the crown. Before Valkyrie’s drunken antics, he found himself fast forgetting his script. 

“I’m curious about something,” W’Kabi said. His smile was sharp and unfriendly. “Valkyrie.” He raised his voice. “You said that you’re the best warrior in Asgard.” 

“Mmmyes.” Valkyrie belched. She slipped on the rhino, and T’Challa winced as she landed hard on her flank in the dirt. Cursing, she pulled herself to her feet and climbed out of the paddock, swaying as she walked towards them. “Why?”

“Better than Thor?” T’Challa asked, curious.

Valkyrie eyed him for a long moment. She finished the bottle of whatever she was drinking in a continuous swig, and when she next breathed out, T’Challa could smell the stink of alcohol on her breath. “Probably,” Valkyrie said. She yawned. “I’ve been part of his family’s fucking army since before he was born. Fighting all their fucking battles.” Valkyrie smiled at T’Challa with bared teeth. “You’re the King of Wakanda, aren’t you? I _love_ royalty.” She patted W’Kabi on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t associate with royalty if I were you. Before you know it, you’d be packed off on a war.” 

W’Kabi smiled at her. It wasn’t a condescending smile, oddly enough. “I’m not afraid of war.” 

“You should be. Blasted ugly things. Make you lose everyone you love.” Valkyrie eyed W’Kabi, then the other shieldarms beside him. “I’m bored. Let’s fight.” 

“That’s exactly why I called you over. You’d find His Majesty here an interesting sparring partner,” W’Kabi said, inclining his head at T’Challa. “He’s meant to be the strongest warrior in Wakanda.”

“W’Kabi,” Okoye said sharply. 

Valkyrie blew out a deep sigh. “No. Wish I could, but no.” 

“No?” T’Challa asked. 

“Orders and all that. Not allowed. Isn’t that nice? He must really like you. Our God of Thunder.” Valkyrie’s mockery was halfhearted. “It’s bad luck. To be liked.” 

“Why do you say that?” T’Challa tensed.

“I’ve been around. From before. Before they built a golden fucking city on top of the bodies of everyone they buried to make it so, so shiny.” Valkyrie held up her hands briefly in New Asgard’s direction. “I know what that family is like when they want something. Dragging me back. Making me fight. He never asked me for my name, did you know that? All this time.” 

“Thor…” T’Challa trailed off. He couldn’t defend Thor on what little he knew. He had only known Thor for less than a fraction of a heartbeat, compared to Thor’s own people. T’Challa would have liked to say that Thor cared. Thor did care—he clearly cared deeply about the fate of his people. He would die for them, had sacrificed for them. And yet. There was a simplicity to the way Thor cared, a ruthlessness. Thor had used his people in order to save them. He had used his friends, moving them into place like a chessplayer with his pawns. Like a king with his subjects.

“You people used to worship him, didn’t you? Some of you people anyway,” Valkyrie amended. “I heard you Wakandans actually worship a great big cat. Makes sense. I like cats.” 

“What is your name, warrior?” T’Challa asked gently.

Valkyrie laughed, shaking her head. “The people who deserve to know my name are all dead.” 

“I’ll fight you for it,” T’Challa offered, before he could stop himself from offering. “Don’t worry about Thor. I’ll speak to him if he gets upset.” Because he knew that such a challenge would make W’Kabi stare at him, make the other shieldarms behind him whisper and grin. Because the Border Tribe respected strength, and this was a chance to break the hostile ceasefire between them. Because he knew Valkyrie would look him over slowly, silent for a long moment before she smiled with bitter satisfaction. 

“Where’s my sword?” Valkyrie asked, no longer visibly inebriated. One of the Border Tribe children hurried over after a moment’s pause from within a hut, holding out a white blade that looked like it had been recently polished. Valkyrie patted the girl gently on her head, making her giggle. 

“My King,” Okoye said, disapproving. 

“I need the practice,” T’Challa said. “W’Kabi, could I borrow a shield and a spear?” 

The fight was quick. T’Challa tried to hold his own, but Valkyrie was by far the best warrior he had ever faced—faster, more cunning, more ruthless. As T’Challa finally yielded, with Valkyrie’s blade at his throat, even W’Kabi was chanting and stamping for them both. There was no dishonour in defeat. Not against someone impossible to defeat, even with the panther’s blessing. The long and violent span of her years had shattered her, but Valkyrie was still transcendent on the battlefield—a goddess of war. The Border Tribe had seen this in her. They loved this in her. 

Valkyrie inspected the gash on her arm with an air of good humour, sheathing her blade. Had W’Kabi’s spear not been vibranium-tipped, T’Challa suspected that Valkyrie would not have been scratched at all. “Not bad,” she said. 

“It was an honour to face you,” T’Challa said, catching his breath. Even with his sister’s armour, his ribs ached. “Thank you. For the lesson.”

Valkyrie smiled. She leaned forward, her mouth close to his ear. “Brynhildr is my name,” she whispered. 

“Thank you for your trust. I won’t forget it,” T’Challa promised. 

“Oh, you will,” Valkyrie said, patting his shoulder. “You’re mortal, after all.”

#

Loki showed no surprise when T’Challa sat down beside him on the bench. The God of Mischief deserved his titles—he looked exactly like some wealthy matron from the Mining Tribe, down to the orange butterfat and ochre otjize rubbed on her—his—skin. “My King,” Loki said, in perfect isiXhosa.

“No self-respecting Principate of the Mining Tribe would be sitting alone in public in Birnin Djata,” T’Challa told ‘her’. After a moment’s pause, the disguise dropped away, the colourful dress of the Principate fading to black and green, ochre-reddened skin fading to bone. Loki pursed his lips when no one about him reacted in surprise. On the stage, the play didn’t even falter. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Loki said, with a mocking smile. He looked T’Challa over with playful malice. “When is the happy day? When our people become one, and all that. We could compress the names of our kingdoms together into a newly ugly word. I’m in favour of ‘Wakangard’ myself.” 

“I don’t think such a happy day has been scheduled,” T’Challa said, trying to hide his surprise. Thor had said nothing of the sort.

“Come now.” Loki’s lip curled. “We could have gone to Xandar. To Vanaheim. Worlds where Asgardian rule is still absolute, where they used to pay us yearly tithes. Or worlds with a more civilised approach to refugees. Why are we here?” At T’Challa’s silence, Loki let out a sharp laugh. “You’ve thought of this, haven’t you? Your Majesty. You’re slightly cleverer than the rest of these mewling sheep.” 

“I’m flattered that you think me so,” T’Challa said. Before his wry calm, Loki’s contempt flared and faded into curiosity. “Why are you and your people here, Loki?”

“They aren’t my people.” 

“You wear their skin,” T’Challa said. 

“An affectation. Racism is a barbaric concept, beneath any Asgardian. Haven’t you heard?” Loki said, his words heavy with irony. 

“You are not in Asgard right now.” 

Loki’s hands clenched over his lap. T’Challa’s gentle pity had burned him more than anything else that T’Challa could have done to him. Just as T’Challa had intended. In the stare that Loki leveled at T’Challa in turn, there was something like hate, something like respect. Loki took in a breath. The paleness of his skin leached away into a colour akin to the heart of a glacier, the whites of his eyes reddening. A chill bled into the air. Loki’s skin was scoured with strange circular patterns, ridges that made no evolutionary sense. 

“Satisfied?” Loki said. It was startling to hear isiXhosa emerge from his impossible mouth, made harsh with bitterness.

“You sound like Valkyrie,” T’Challa said. 

Loki blinked. He glanced at T’Challa thoughtfully, then at the Dora Milaje behind him and back. “Ah. Did you fight her? That must have been quick.” 

“It was,” T’Challa said, even as he heard Okoye suck in an irritated breath. 

“Fascinating, isn’t she? Did you know, she sold my brother into slavery? Not that it lasted.” 

T’Challa stiffened. Valkyrie, a slaver? “I hadn’t heard. Did she know who he was? When she did that?” 

“Of course she knew. And even if she didn’t. Would it have made a difference?” Loki’s smile widened, humourless. “She’d done the same before to many others. Sold countless numbers of the lost to an arena to fight and die. She was rather good at it, I hear. Hunting.”

Thor had glossed over this part of Valkyrie’s history. “That…” T’Challa trailed off. “That is a matter for your king to manage,” he said, though it was a weak thing to say. Valkyrie was, after all, enjoying free passage through Wakanda. 

Loki snickered. “Your Border people love her. They didn’t care that she’s clearly a psychopathic drunk, not after she defeated all of their best warriors with her sword in one hand and a bottle in the other. Perhaps they wouldn’t care overmuch about the thousand or so years she spent selling people to their deaths. Give it a year or so and they’d probably start building little shrines to her. It seems to be an affectation in this part of the universe.” 

“You were worshipped once as well,” T’Challa said, troubled. Loki’s assessment of the Border Tribe rang uncomfortably true. Such was often the way of people who valued strength above all else. 

“Oh yes. That was amusing.” Loki sniffed. “All the stories about me, giving birth to snakes, wolves, eight-legged horses and all that.” 

“Would it have been possible?” 

Loki glared at him until T’Challa’s mouth quirked into a faint smile. “Possible, yes. Many things are possible with magic.”

“Magic, or Asgardian technology?”

“Magic, technology, what’s the difference? Both harness different forces in the world. Subject to rules. Subject to study.” Loki stretched out his legs, clearly growing bored of the subject. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be, human?”

T’Challa ignored the clear dismissal. “In many cultures, the trickster-Gods are reviled. Punished and imprisoned. They are seen as the antagonists, cruel and evil. That is not the case in this part of the world. We revere Anansi, we remember Èṣù, we still invoke Ekwensu. Because we know that the Gods of Mischief are the Gods of stories. Without mischief, there would be no stories worth telling.” 

Loki stared at him as T’Challa got to his feet. The malice in his smile was gone, though it lingered in his eyes. His was a resentment as old as time, as old as stories. It was not personal. When Loki looked at T’Challa he could not help but see the crown that T’Challa had that was his birthright, which reminded him of the crown that he could not have. Loki’s resentment was jealous by nature, made doubly bitter by the fact that despite everything he had tried and done, he still loved the brother he envied. 

“You should ask Thor about Þrúðheimr,” Loki said, and turned back to watch the play.

#

Thor did not attend the Elder Council when invited. He sent Heimdall in his stead, a gesture that had annoyed T’Challa at first until he understood its meaning. There was no place for a God-king from a galactic Empire that had been built on conquest in any Council that was not his own. It would be ironic at best, threatening at worst. Heimdall had come to the Council dressed humbly and unarmed, in a simple vest and breeches. He kept his golden eyes fixed on nothing, a silent observer who was there to be observed, offering no opinions. He was asked for none.

When Council was adjourned for a break, T’Challa gestured for Heimdall to join him in his private office beside the Council chambers. The rest of his Council couldn’t quite hide their obvious disappointment. Heimdall already had a reputation in Wakanda as a far-seer, one who did not care to lie. His people had always revered seers. “I hope we are not boring you,” T’Challa said, once they were alone. Okoye had given him another disapproving glance when shut out. 

“No,” Heimdall said. He did not look at T’Challa as he said it, his gaze still fixed on distant stars. “I understand why Thor wished to settle here.” 

“Here?” T’Challa repeated. Wakanda had offered refuge—it had not been Thor’s first choice.

“Midgard.” Heimdall folded his hands behind his back. “I know you spoke to Loki. Do you want to ask me about Þrúðheimr?” 

“Should I?” T’Challa asked, with a quick smile. 

“No. You should listen to your people’s stories about Loki. His mischief is not the mischief of Anansi and Èṣù and Ekwensu.” 

“Þrúðheimr was also known as Thrace. A region in Southeast Europe. Bounded by the Balkan Mountains, the Aegean Sea, and the Black Sea,” T’Challa said, watching Heimdall’s impassive face. “The home of Thor, according to the Grímnismál.” 

“Thor’s home is in Asgard. Now New Asgard,” Heimdall said. 

“He did not ever reside in Þrúðheimr?” 

“No.” 

T’Challa frowned. “Does he intend to reside there now?” Move New Asgard to already occupied lands? That wouldn’t go well with any of the governments involved. 

“No.” Heimdall was quiet for a while, as though thinking. “I have been instructed to be forthright with you, T’Challa-King.” 

“Are you not honest in all things?” T’Challa said, amused. “That is the nature of seers.” 

“To be forthright is not the same as being honest,” Heimdall said, finally lifting his golden-eyed stare to T’Challa’s face. “People often appreciate one but not the other, and not both.” 

“Even your God-kings?” When Heimdall inclined his head, T’Challa said, “Wasn’t Odin a God of Wisdom?” 

“He was the God of the Gallows,” Heimdall said. Perhaps cognisant of Thor’s instructions, he added, “Yes.” 

“What does Thor want with Þrúðheimr?” T’Challa asked. 

“Nothing.” 

“Does New Asgard intend to move?”

“Not while we are still welcome here.” 

“Why would Loki ask me to ask Thor about Þrúðheimr?” 

Heimdall hesitated, thinking this over. “Your people once understood Loki perfectly,” he said, after a pause. “Yet they condemned him in their stories to lifetimes of pain for making mischief, even though they knew it was a part of his true nature. Why?” 

“The Norsemen were an uncompromising people, or so it’s said. Wouldn’t you know? You are a seer.” 

“I observe consequences, not the reasoning behind consequences,” Heimdall said. “As I always have.”

 _As I always have_. With a slow blink, T’Challa belatedly caught onto the worm of doubt that he’d felt in Geneva, listening to Thor’s first speech. “Why do your powers still work? Even Loki’s illusions still work.” 

“Should they not?” 

“Wasn’t Asgard the source of Asgardian magic?” Thor had to explain this multiple times to the UN council—he’d taken two hours’ worth of questions about it with patient aplomb.

“Not mine. Or Loki’s.”

“Only Thor’s?” 

Heimdall shot T’Challa a long, solemn stare. “What makes you think that his powers don’t work?”

#

Lightning cracked the sky open as the storm blew its master through T’Challa’s balcony. T’Challa shut off the news feed from his Kimoyo beads, rising to his feet with little surprise. He’d been expecting this visit since talking to Heimdall, when he’d refused to accept calls from Thor for a week. T’Challa had been thinking.

Thor smiled at him. Through the sprawling balcony, bracketed by the high stone arch, the storm spat cracks of light amidst heavy clouds as it shook out its furious laughter above the rain. Thor was wearing a gift fit for a Wakandan King, a present from the Border Tribe, a cuirass of leather and tempered vibranium. Blood-red fabric beaded at the seams lay draped over Thor’s shoulders where a shieldcloak would have adorned a member of the Tribe, though he wore his usual breeches and boots instead of the leather kilt that the shieldarms favoured. It still made for a blunt statement when worn so well. 

“Apparently, I’ve offended you,” Thor said.

“Not at all.”

“Good,” Thor said, after some thought. He turned to leave.

T’Challa blinked. “Wait. Thor… why did you lead the UN to believe that you were now powerless?”

“I did?” Thor said, puzzled. “That was not my intention.” 

T’Challa fought the urge to rub a hand over his face. “You told them that you destroyed the source leypoint of Asgardian power. In order to render your sister powerless, to remove her invincibility. You said your homeworld was the source of Asgardian magic.”

“It was,” Thor said, with a wry, sad smile. “And more besides.”

“Why haven’t you lost your powers?” T’Challa asked. He didn’t wait for Thor to respond. “Because you can’t. Thanks to Earth. How did your people do it? Create Gods out of your children?” 

“It is a very old sort of magic, one that we did not invent. We had Gods before we made our own Gods. We learned from them. As you may someday learn from us,” Thor said quietly. “You will regret it if you do. We have.” 

“Your brother told me to ask you about Þrúðheimr.” 

Thor inclined his head. “Then no doubt you’ve already guessed.” 

“You were incarnated there,” T’Challa said, because how else could the story have been written? “You were merely Asgardian before you came to Earth, I think. Over a thousand years ago. Then you became something more.” 

“Aye.”

“Didn’t you ever wonder whether something was wrong? The Norsemen had stories about your sister. Save that she was known here as your niece. Loki’s daughter, the Queen of Helheim. The Goddess of Death. How did she incarnate without you knowing about it? Our world’s history is not that old.” 

“What makes you think that this is the only world that was used this way?” As T’Challa straightened with a soft gasp, Thor said, “Though I did not guess about the others. Not until.” He made a deprecating gesture at his missing eye. “I confess I did not care to learn about the myths from your world. Even if friend Stark used to like repeating them to me.” 

“Your father wished to have her remembered in a small way,” T’Challa guessed. “Some part of him loved her still.” 

“Perhaps,” Thor said, his mouth compressing into a flat line. “Personally, I don’t think he really knew how to love.” 

“Some part of him is still here, isn’t it? Irrevocably. That’s why you came to Earth. You are tangled into the fabric of this world in a way that feeds who you are, just as your father is. We still remember Þrúðheimr as the seat of your power. Each week bears a remembrance-day to you and your father. On Woden’s day we remember Odin, even if we don’t know him. On Thor’s day, we honour you, even if we reject you.” 

Light shattered through the balcony, dredging the world in black and white. Thor smiled broadly, with the cataclysmic amusement of a God. “Do you reject me?” he asked, stalking closer, and his eyes were full of laughter. 

“I was speaking of the world as a whole,” T’Challa said, though he allowed Thor to walk right up to him, to reach for him. Thor was taller than most men. His body gave off heat like a furnace this close, and he smelled like the storm. Thor bent towards him and paused as T’Challa touched his cheek, just under his eyepatch. Not even the scar made Thor seem any less than what he was. After all, it had taken another God to maim a God. 

“I am thankful for the kindness you have shown,” Thor said, speaking the words with a jagged formality that sounded strange to T’Challa’s ears before he realized belatedly that Thor had spoken in isiXhosa. His inflection was not as perfect as his brother’s. Perhaps he did not care for it to be. “And for the kindnesses you have yet to show me.” Thor broke the words against the storm itself as he bent again until his mouth was pressed hard against T’Challa’s. 

This was madness. To pull Thor closer, to open his mouth to him, to yield to the thunder and the breaking light. The myths and ancient stories all bore warnings about this—that no good thing could come to a person who lay with a God. There were two fates for those doomed to be so loved. They were forgotten or destroyed. T’Challa moaned, biting down. He had to confess himself curious. More than his speed and his strength, his crown was God-given, or so the stories would have him believe—that Bast had chosen the Udaka tribe to be elevated above the rest. With the Heart-Shaped Herb in his veins T’Challa was god-touched. Perhaps that would be enough to save him from ruin. 

Thor walked him back to the bed, kissing him deeply and stroking his arms. T’Challa fumbled with the catches on the cuirass, hauling at the cape. “Why did you wear this tonight?” T’Challa whispered as the cuirass fell free. “Do you know what it means?”

“No? I’ve been wearing it for days. I like it. Your friend W’Kabi gave it to me after I defeated him in a match.” There was nowhere for mischief to hide before the incarnation of a storm. It was too loud, too bright. There was no hidden message between them where Thor was concerned. 

This was who he was, pushing T’Challa down onto the bed and marking his neck with bites. Thor’s desire was unselfish, as devastatingly bright as his lightning. Thor grinned as T’Challa pulled off his undershirt and pushed him down onto his back to strip off the rest of his clothes. T’Challa’s bed was richly made, the immaculate sheets threaded with shimmering patterns that caught only the light of the dawn or dusk, the frame carved out of a single massive Wakandan oak into a fantastical stalking-ground for its lifelike panthers, their eyes inset with lapis lazuli and their claws with gold and vibranium. Sprawled naked on the bed and laughing, Thor made the craftsmanship he lay on look inadequate by comparison. Here was a God, and no mortal work could suffice to adequately frame his ruinous beauty. This was why people who dared to lie with a God were driven to death or worse. 

T’Challa would dare. He pulled off his own clothes and straddled Thor’s thighs, dug his nails into powerful arms. Harder and harder he pressed, leaving no mark even with a panther’s strength. Thor growled. He hauled T’Challa down to kiss him, his hands stroking down T’Challa’s spine, running his fingertips over the few scars that had slipped past the Heart-Shaped Herb’s blessing. Thor kissed his way down as T’Challa groaned and scratched at his shoulders, his breaths hot and shallow and so very human. Human enough, as he chuckled at T’Challa’s navel, watching muscle twitch under his tongue. Human enough, as Thor pressed a kiss to the tip of T’Challa’s cock, teasing him. 

“Thor,” T’Challa breathed. Now he dared to command a God. Thor grinned up at him, his single eye bright with lust. “Take me into your mouth.” 

Thor obeyed, but it was obvious from his grin that he obeyed because it amused him to obey. He sucked T’Challa down in an unhurried slide that had T’Challa soon pressed against the back of his throat and seizing up with a yowl. Thor squeezed his ass with long-fingered hands, rumbling in delight as he pulled T’Challa deeper. His breaths were hot against T’Challa’s belly, his throat deliciously wet and tight. The storm roared over T’Challa’s city as Thor started to move against him with an eager purr. He pinched T’Challa’s rump and muffled a groan as T’Challa bucked into his mouth. T’Challa gasped as he closed his hand against the back of Thor’s neck with a grip that would have bruised a mortal man. He thrust into the heat of Thor’s mouth at a hungry pace that he would never have dared on someone human. Thor drank that down and demanded more. He choked his laughter around T’Challa as T’Challa cursed and drove up against him, stroking T’Challa’s thighs, his tightening balls. When Thor pressed this thumb against T’Challa’s hole, T’Challa let out a hoarse cry as he ground his release down Thor’s throat. 

T’Challa was shaking as he sank down against the bed, trying to breathe slowly. Bast’s gift made him hyper-aware of his own sweat-scent, of the scent of the semen he had left on Thor. He could still smell nothing of Thor himself but the storm. Thor grinned lazily, licking T’Challa clean, pressing ticklish kisses against T’Challa’s thighs until T’Challa relaxed on the sheets. Then he bent, still grinning, to take T’Challa back into his mouth.

#

“My father once told me that it is hard for a good man to be a king,” T’Challa said drowsily, much later as they lay tangled on the bed. Thor hummed instead of responding. “You don’t agree.”

“Morality is variable,” Thor said, and kissed T’Challa on his forehead. “Consequences are what matters for a king.” 

“Is that what Odin taught you?” 

“It is what I have learned.” Thor kissed T’Challa on his eyes. One, then the other. 

“Is it hard for a good man to be a God?” T’Challa asked, trailing his fingertips over the hard planes of Thor’s chest. Over the slow beat of his heart, a beat that had counted time through the centuries. 

“No,” Thor said. His eye was closed as he sank back against the bed. “It is not hard to be a God. You are, or you are not. Rather, you should ask: Is it hard for a God to be a good man?” 

“Well?” T’Challa asked after a while, when Thor said nothing. 

“Mm?”

“Is it hard for a God to do good?” 

“That is not the question I suggested,” Thor said, though he grinned and kissed T’Challa on the cheek. “Yes,” he whispered, with his lips pressed to T’Challa’s ear. “Because it is easier to be selfish. Your people know this. It is why they have tried to bind the avatar of their God in rituals of service.” Thor tapped T’Challa playfully on his nose. “They make him fight to prove his worth and his right to the crown. To remind him of his own mortality.” 

“You think us barbaric,” T’Challa said. It was difficult not to bristle.

Thor shook his head, his smile pressed thin. “No. Never. How could I? After all, you were all made in our image.” He kissed T’Challa on the mouth when T’Challa could find nothing to say, and settled against him with a yawn. Above the golden city, the storm was dying.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent.tumblr.com  
> \--  
> If you liked this story I recommend reading Rachel Heng’s Suicide Club, NK Jemisin’s A Hundred Thousand Kingdoms, S.A. Chakraborty’s City of Brass. Also, playing God of War 4. :D 
> 
> https://www.wired.co.uk/article/marvel-universe


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